Fortitude
by XiaoDui
Summary: Fortitude. Noun. The strength of mind that enables a person to encounter danger or bear pain/ adversity with courage. 9/11 tribute, Danny's POV


_Where were you when the world stopped turning_

_That September day?_

I was in Amity Park. Sitting, relatively safe, in a classroom.

_Out in the yard with your wife and children,_

_Or working on some stage in L.A.?_

Mr. Lancer had just turned the classroom TV on. We'd just been lectured on how no one used 'proper' English when they spoke, and how mixing up words was almost encouraged (much like the word 'literally' - we use it differently than it's meant to be used, apparently). My teacher was about to use the news to show us how even 'professionals' made these 'mistakes'.

We were the first class to hear it.

No one could believe what whas happening as Mr. Lancer went pale. Almost hesitantly, tenatively, he reached up and turned up the volume.

Channel 7, Action News . . . we watched as the Twin Towers fell.

_Did you stand there in shock at the sight of that black smoke_

_Rising against that blue sky?_

_Did you shout out in anger,_

_In fear for your neighbor,_

_Or did you just sit down and cry?_

A random A-Lister burst into loud sobs, but no one moved to comfort her. I suppose we were all trying to hold back our own tears, or were just too shocked to do anything more than simply stare in horror. Looking at my own friends, I saw that Tucker had gone even paler than Lancer. Sam looked ready to cry herself.

But Sam never cries.

_Did you weep for the children_

_Who lost their dear loved ones_

_And pray for the ones who don't know?_

_Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble_

_And sob for the ones left below?_

I forced myself to look away when the first tear trailed black mascara down Sam's cheek. If I watched her cry, that would crumble my last resolve on my own waterworks. I'd wail in grief.

_Did you burst out in pride_

_For the red, white, and blue;_

_For the heroes who died just doing what they do?_

_Did you look up to Heaven for some kind of answer_

_And look at yourself, and to what really matters?_

I wanted to jump out of my seat and rush out of the classroom. I wanted to fly as fast as I could to New York City, to that terrible scene on the TV. I wanted to help, to stop the pain I could feel even from the cold unresponsive television.

_I'm just a singer of simple songs._

_I'm not a real political man._

_I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you_

_The difference in Iraq and Iran._

_But I know Jesus, and I talk to God,_

_And I remember this from when I was young:_

_Faith, hope, and love are some good things He gave us . . ._

_. . . and the greatest is love._

I wrestled with myself. I wanted to go - **needed** to go . . . but I was in the middle of class. I couldn't . . . but I had to . . .

_Where were you when the world stopped turning_

_That September day?_

Screw my secret.

I ran out of the classroom, only dimply noting that my chair was knocked over with a clatter as I did so. I ran, not caring what happened or who saw me. I didn't care if my secret was blown - I had the power, the ability to help, and be **damned** if I didn't use it!

_Teaching a class full of innocent children,_

_Or driving down some cold interstate?_

Going ghost without my usual battle-cry, I went from running to flying as easily as breathing. I sent as much of my power as I dared into my ability to fly, and rocketed off towards NYC. I didn't bother to look at the scenery, or even to go invisible so as to not terrify others. After what I'd just seen on national TV, they wouldn't - **couldn't** - be terrified of a **ghost**.

I couldn't look at the scenery anyway. The image of the Twin Towers falling kept playing through my mind, and I could **feel** the steel pressing down on the people inside.

I shot into New York City at full blast, towards the remains of the Twin Towers. I didn't bother to check in with anyone - that would waste precious seconds.

Seconds no one had time to waste.

Instead, I phased directly into the mess.

An arm, sticking out from under a heavy steel beam, twitched pitifully.

In a frantic rush I sawed the beam away with a carefully controlled ectoblast. A man, slightly overweight, middle-aged, balding, dressed in the tattered remains of what must have been a fine suit. He groaned as I helped him to his feet, and wrapped an arm over my shoulders. Phasing us through the rubble until we reached the ground level, I laid him out on an empty stretcher.

But, as I laid him down, I felt his soul leave with a gasp.

He died in my arms.

_Did you feel guilty 'cause you're a survivor?_

_In a crowded room, did you feel alone?_

I stared at the body for a moment, then made myself clear it off the stretcher and turn around. I ran back into the rubble.

It was the first time I'd watched someone die.

But . . . more would die if I didn't do better than my best and get back in there.

I steeled myself for any grim surprises, and phased through a caved-in wall, searching for more survivors.

_Did you call up your mother and tell her you love her? Did you dust off that Bible at home_

_Did you open your eyes and hope it never happened,_

_Close your eyes and not go to sleep?_

_Did you notice the sunset for the first time in ages,_

_Speak with some stranger on the street?_

_Did you lay down at night and think of tomorrow,_

_Go out and buy you a gun?_

_Did you turn off that violent old movie you're watching_

_And turn on "I Love Lucy" reruns?_

By the time I was starting to run low on energy, we'd gotten as many people out as we could. There was no more we could do.

There were so many we couldn't save . . .

A Red Cross blood donation center had been halphazardly set up nearby . . . I didn't care if my blood was half-ghost - as much as I'm half ghost, I'm half **human**.

I've no clue how long I sat there with my hazmat's sleeve pushed up and my glove in my free fist. While the volunteer had readied the syringe, I'd transferred just my arm to human-mode - this way, there'd be a tiny bit less ectoplasm in my blood.

She told me to tell her when I started feeling dizzy, then began to take my blood, labelling the bag my blood type - OO. Not many people have OO blood type. Thus, I let syringe after syringe be added to the pile. The volunteer didn't notice the growing stack - I don't blame her. I was still in vague shock over the event myself - if I barely noticed in only vague shock, how could I expect her to?

I began feeling a little fuzzy after the sixth syringe, but said nothing. So many people needed blood, and they were gonna **get** it if I had anything to do about it.

The woman in the chair next to me was a mother, and had her child playing at her feet. She looked over at me, and smiled. She seemed to recognize that I was still a teenager, and immediately took my free hand. I blinked at her, vaguely surprised through the haze creeping in at the edge of my mind, and smiled back.

_Did you go to a church and hold hands with some stranger?_

_Stand in line and give your own blood?_

A policeman was making the rounds, thanking everybody and checking up on all those giving their blood. The woman had long finished, and was gone. By now, I was past dizzy and heading towards nauseous. But I had to keep giving blood . . . had to save someone . . . anyone . . .

He put a stern hand on my shoulder and berated the volunteer. He kept going on about stuff like 'just look at the kid' and 'he's freakin' **swaying**'. Then, before I knew what was going on, he was gently handling me out. Both of us were covered in soot, grime, and God-only-knows whose blood. My hair, usually snow-white, was a grubby grey smeared with black. I already knew that my eyes, normally glowing emerald, would be a dull forest-green.

The policeman made me look at him. He told me to go home, I'd helped more than enough. He also asked my name - I freed myself of the whole moronic 'Inviso-Bill' and told him I was simply 'Phantom' (I was too tired to give my first name, and besides - while using my full 'Danny Phantom' in Amity was passable since everyone was dense enough to not get the connection, I was pretty sure New Yorkers would probably make the connection if newscasters followed me home and found Danny Fenton instead). The man had simply nodded, smiled, and escorted me to a taxi.

I shook my head, and headed over to where the other policemen/ firefighters/ various other volunteers that had helped pull people to safety were resting. I hesitantly gave them my best attempt at a smile for the moment - it ended up more of a grimace, but I think they understood - and they smiled back.

I'd discovered a while back that I could heal minor injuries when Tucker had twisted his ankle. Today, I put that into use as I healed burns, cuts, some gashes, and heavy bruisings. In return they told me stories about their families and friends - their way of dealing with this tragedy, I suppose.

_Did you just stay home and cling tight to your family,_

_Thank God you had somebody to love?_

Slowly, I found myself telling them about Jazz, and all her psychological obsessions. My parents, too, came up, and then Tucker and Sam. Talking about our loved ones both hurt . . . and helped.

I smiled to myself, and had a rare moment of epiphany.

_I'm just a singer of simple songs._

_I'm not a real political man._

_I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you_

_The difference in Iraq and Iran._

_But I know Jesus, and I talk to God,_

_And I remember this from when I was young:_

_Faith, hope, and love are some good things He gave us . . ._

_. . . and the greatest is love._

Channel 7 (oh, the irony) was pulling aside some of my new aqquaintances, and interviewing them about the day. Their collective calm seemed to slip away as men and women were forced to relive some of the worst moments of their lives.

Yet, the words they were saying weren't descriptions of what they themselves had done, but were about the spirit of America and such. Each message tended the same way.

Spirit, hope, diligence, perseverance, courage, valor, faith . . .

. . . and love.

_I'm just a singer of simple songs._

_I'm not a real political man._

_I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you_

_The difference in Iraq and Iran._

_But I know Jesus, and I talk to God,_

_And I remember this from when I was young:_

_Faith, hope, and love are some good things He gave us . . ._

_. . . and the greatest is love._

One of the reporters noticed me.

I was tempted to go invisible and escape, especially after seeing all the other 'interview's. Even the strongest firefighter, the toughest policeman, had broken down and cried. What would I do? What would I talk about? Just blinking and seeing the man die in my arms over and over, again and again, was hard enough . . . what about all the others that had died as I tried to save them? What would I say?

I knew the answer to my last question as soon as I asked myself.

The reporter approached . . .

"Hey, Phantom, right? What do **you** have to say to America, or to the world?"

_. . . the greatest is love . . ._

I gave him a small, tired smile.

_. . . the greatest is love . . . !_

"I'm no hero. A lot of people in Amity Park - my home - think I am, but I'm not. Sure, I save people, but I'm no true hero. All these people you see here . . . **they're** your heroes. They don't need powers to save a life, and they didn't have to come here to dig for survivors."

"These are Americans." I finished softly. ". . . look to yourself, and I'm sure you'll find a hero there."

_Where were you when the world stopped turning . . ._

_. . . that September day . . . ?_


End file.
